Becoming the Great Detective
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: Jeremy Brett is acclaimed for his skill in portraying Sherlock Holmes. But when he's mistaken for the Great Detective by a smuggling ring, his skills are tested as never before. Granada AU crossover. Gift-fic for Moonspun Dragon.
1. Prologue: A Case of Identity

**Author's Note:**

This is a gift-fic for our wonderful, incorrigible Moonspun Dragon, who has seen fit not only to take me up on my challenge of Granada crossovers, but also to produce so many of them! Here's looking at you, darlin'!

(Btw, just to remind Spockologist and nomdeplume30—you guys still have to let me know what _you_ want for your own gift-fics!)

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. This story involves real people without permission, but only the greatest respect is intended towards the non-fictional characters. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and Professor & Colonel Moriarty reside in the public domain. _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ series belongs to Granada. I make no profit from this.

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><p><strong>==Becoming the Great Detective==<strong>

_Jeremy Brett is acclaimed for his skill in portraying Sherlock Holmes. But when he's mistaken for the Great Detective by a smuggling ring, his skills are tested as never before. Granada AU crossover._

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><p><strong>==Prologue==<strong>

**A Case of Identity**

A man emerged from the studio building whistling cheerily. Dark-haired, light-eyed, 6'2", lanky, he fit a basic description of Sherlock Holmes. His current job, in fact, depended on that happy circumstance. His name was Jeremy Brett.

It was Friday, shooting was over until Monday, and he'd be putting in a phone call to his wife in the States in an hour. He was a happy man.

Jeremy hailed a nearby cab and jogged over to it, getting in and giving his address. He quickly became wrapped up in his thoughts concerning Granada's current production and second-to-last episode for the first season of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_—"The Speckled Band". Too wrapped up, for it took him too long to realize that the cab was headed nowhere in the direction of his hotel. In fact, he was headed deeper and deeper into a derelict part of town.

Conclusion: he was being kidnapped.

Question: why kidnap an actor?

Possible answer: he looked nearly identical to Sherlock Holmes.

_All right, all right, stay calm,_ he told himself, forcing his breathing to remain steady. He could go quietly, or he could chance injury by making a run for it.

That wasn't really even a choice, was it?

He reached for the handle, then stopped. What if he was still caught? Should he let them think he was Holmes or himself? On one hand, if they realized their mistake, they might let him go. On the other hand, such altruism would be unlikely, and he might be used as a hostage.

He took a deep breath and let it out, noiselessly. He had to gamble that he could pull off Holmes in a dangerous situation. And he had to _think_ like Holmes like never before. Thinking like the Great Detective was something he'd been doing regularly since taking on the role, but, for once, he didn't have the guidance of a script. He had only his wits and what he knew of Sherlock Holmes. Fortunately, he'd spent quite a lot of time with the man over the past few months.

A warning pinged in his mind: his wallet. If he was caught and searched, his wallet would plainly identify him as himself. He had to get rid of his driver's license, his ID, his photos… He withdrew the wallet from his pocket and pulled out everything that could identify him.

Stuffing the wallet back in his pocket and bracing himself, he grabbed the door handle. _Here goes nothing_…

He flung open the door and burst out. Landing was painful, but he was up and away even as the car screeched to a halt and the driver cursed and shouted at him. Jeremy took off down a narrow alley, having dropped his driver's license at the entrance and dropping more identification every twenty yards. He could soon hear the false cabbie's feet pounding after him.

Fortunately, he was tall and in-shape—to be a stand-in for Sherlock Holmes, he had to be. "Get to a better part of town, find a store or restaurant, call the police," he panted to himself. Simple.

_Life isn't that simple_.

After several minutes of winding through alleys and by-ways, he was thoroughly lost, with his pursuer still behind him. London just wasn't his city like it was Holmes's—then again, probably no one else could claim that distinction. The distance between the pieces of ID he was still dropping kept growing further and further apart. To make matters worse, he soon heard more pounding feet.

_This is bad_.

The reason that traps in dead-ends are cliché is because they are so terribly effective—the success rate speaks for itself. And Jeremy found himself in a dead-end. He whirled around, willing that mask of impassivity to slide over his face and willing his heart to stay in his ribcage. He flung his left arm behind his back and dropped his final piece of evidence—a photo of himself and his wife.

The five men before him bore guns. "Hands in the air, Mr. Holmes!" one of the men barked.

_I was right_. Jeremy raised his hands slowly, fingers splayed wide to show he held nothing. _In a situation with guns, unless Holmes was to have some sort of advantage, he'd go along with it,_ he reasoned. _No good getting yourself hurt with unnecessary heroics_.

The other four men advanced on him while the leader kept his pistol trained on Jeremy's chest. "Well, who'd've thought kidnapping the Great Detective could be so easy?" the man mocked.

Jeremy lifted his chin, the very picture of regal dignity. "A cabbie as a kidnapper," he said in the strident tenor he used as Holmes's double. "Elegant in its simplicity. I really must congratulate you."

"Who says we're kidnapping?" the leader returned with a smile. "Maybe somebody just wants to have a chat with you."

Jeremy eyed the thugs warily—two passed on behind him. "They could have made an appointment, then."

"They did." The smile widened. "You just weren't informed 'til now."

Abruptly, white-hot pain exploded in the back of his skull, immediately succeeded by blackness.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Oh, wow—Jeremy got _kidnapped_? What is this world coming to? How will our boys handle this situation? …Give me some time to get the first chapter together, okay? It's going to be tough.

So, where did this brazen idea come from? To tell you the truth, I'm not sure. No, wait—come to think of it, nomdeplume30's _A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Set_ might have inspired this, at least a little bit (like David Burke's heroism in the confrontation with Abe Slaney). I did just finish rereading that. …Anyway, once I had the idea, I liked it, especially as it is multichaptered with an actual _plot_, unlike _A Study in Stardom_. (Speaking of which, I have finally updated!)

This is only my second-ever _non_-sci-fi attempt at writing an actual adventure story (the first is WIP for the _Sherlock_ side of the fandom, called _Avenging Angels_), so bear with me, please! I would call it _mystery_, as that is what Holmes, Watson, and David will have to deal with; but with the action taking place on both fronts, it's less a mystery and more an adventure/slightly-action tale.

Yes, we're going to be seeing some heroic!Jeremy. Fangirls beware. ^_^

Like I said, I'm not sure when I'll update. I _hope_ some time next week, but I make no promises. I have an epilogue very much thought-out, but what happens _in-between_ is just a bit vaguer.

_**Please review!**_


	2. 1: Captive

**Author's Note:**

Ha, I never thought I'd have the first chapter up this soon! But a rush of inspiration came to me yesterday, so here we are! Btw, thank you to those who've favorited already!

Also, I've decided to change this story from third-person POV to first-person. I'll go back and switch the prologue's POV—I just think that, with this kind of story, it might flow better.

Lastly, something that I didn't really consider when I uploaded the prologue was that there _will_ be Jeremy!abuse. Sorry for not warning you sooner! But in his situation, it's a bit inevitable.

**To my reviewers:**

Moonspun Dragon: Thank you, darlin'—so glad you love it! =D

SabrinaPhynn: Thank you, hon!

ElizabethAnneSoph: Yes, it did make sense, and thank you! =)

..jar: Awww, don't have a breakdown! …I'm afraid I can't give any more spoilers beyond what I'll say in the A/N below. Thank you very much for the love! (Speaking of love, I adore your avvie! ^_^)

**==Chapter One==**

**Captive**

_**(Jeremy)**_

The first thing I was aware of was an insistent throbbing in the back of my head. I moaned and tried to drift back to sleep, but a severe discomfort that I couldn't quite place yet was rendering that feat impossible. I forced my eyes open and realized that I was in the most awkward position in which I'd ever been. My hands were manacled around a metal structural post behind my back, I was kneeling on a cold, hard floor, and I _had_ been leaning forward limply.

I was trying to correct those last two situations now. It was tricky, and it took some doing—considering that my wrists were shackled behind me, my head was screaming blue murder, and my limbs all protested similarly—but I managed it at last. I sagged against the post in relief, closing my eyes and exhaling explosively.

For a moment only, I wondered what in the world had happened to me. Then it all came flooding back.

The cab ride, the chase, the men with guns, being mistaken for Sherlock Holmes…

_Holmes, you owe me for this_.

I recalled that Holmes had indeed been working on a case—something about drug trafficking, I believed—but, as ever, the detective preferred to hold back his hand until the last possible moment. I had seen it before: Holmes on a case, restless during those times that he _had_ to be at the studio, tight-lipped even to Watson about what he was doing unless Watson was intimately involved, and then awash in triumph after the successful conclusion of the case. The man was impossible to live with in those times—come to think of it, he was impossible to live with while _not_ on case.

I didn't know how Watson could have done it all these years—Holmes could probably have driven _me_ insane in the same amount of time.

_Focus_.

All right, where was I? Metal post, concrete floor, bare white walls, no windows, no furniture, one average-looking wooden door, one light bulb attached to the ceiling, and one air vent. Considering the fact that our latest Sherlock Holmes episode was "The Speckled Band," the presence of that air vent wasn't exactly encouraging. I resolved to keep an eye on it.

_For all the good it will do you_.

I pushed that dark little voice back to an equally dark corner of my mind and pursed my lips in thought. My little room looked like part of a basement; the concrete flooring and lack of windows certainly supported the idea.

No sooner had I made this assessment than something rattled in the doorknob, and the door swung open. Three men stepped into the room, all three part of the group that had kidnapped me, the same leader as before striding towards me. I ran a critical eye over him—roughly 5'9", medium build, brown-haired, blue-eyed… completely nondescript. I was willing to bet this man was a spy; given his unremarkable appearance, he could easily disappear in a crowd.

There was no more that I could deduce about the man, though, because I had no more mastered that art than had Watson. That took a faster, brighter mind than my own.

"Well, well, looks like Sleeping Beauty finally woke up," the man drawled. I immediately decided that this creep wasn't worth my hate—only my disdain. Only _Holmes's_ disdain. I was Sherlock Holmes—I had to remember that.

I drew myself up with aristocratic contempt and looked down my nose at the other man—an easy feat, considering that he was at least five inches taller. "Good day to you, sir, or should I say _evening_?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" the man sneered. Good grief, did he _have_ to be so cliché? I made another resolution: to give him the moniker "Creep" in my mind. "You're a smart man, Mr. Holmes, so I think you know when you're in troub—"

"Considering my current physical position, such a fool as yourself could deduce that," I cut in sharply. That proved to be a mistake.

Creep's eyes narrowed, and, though I could move my head, I could not completely avoid the harsh backhand. I blinked back involuntary tears and tasted blood in my mouth. "Mouthing off will only make it hurt worse, Holmes," Creep snarled.

I glared at him and spat my blood at him in disgust. It landed on the bottom of his jacket, and the man growled deep in his throat. He looked as if he very much wanted to repeat his blow—and harder—but then thought better of it. "Actions like that can cost you, Holmes."

I held his head up and said nothing.

At last, Creep spoke again. "You've made some very important people very… irritated, Mr. Holmes. They don't like irritations, especially when irritations have potentially damning evidence lying around that anybody like—oh, say, the police?—could pick up."

My heart rate sped up at that, though I carefully kept my face as calm and disdainful as possible. If Holmes had information these criminals wanted, then they would not hesitate to get the location out of me by any means necessary. And I had nothing but the vaguest details concerning this case.

A chill ran down my spine, and another, and another; and, suddenly, I felt very cold.

"I see," I said tonelessly.

"So here's what we're gonna do," Creep said, in a conspiratorial manner. "You'll get no food for a week. You'll be standing there like that the whole time. You'll get water only once, 'cause we sure don't want a celebrity to die of dehydration, do we? And you'll get no light—soon as we leave, the light bulb is turning off."

He smiled—if baring one's teeth could be designated as such. "At the end of seven days, we'll see if you're ready to talk yet. If not…" He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. "Well, you have an imagination. I'm sure you can imagine a few things."

I said nothing. I certainly could imagine a few things, and I was trying very hard _not_ to do so.

Creep turned to go, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Oh, and don't worry about the Doctor, eh? The boys'll take good care of him."

"_What?_" was ripped from my mouth before I could stop it.

"See you around!" the other man called as he sauntered out of the room.

"No!" I cried, lunging against my restraints. The door shut, and the room was instantly plunged into darkness.

_Oh, dear God!_

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><p><em><strong>(David)<strong>_

"Jeremy, you missed the… funniest… row…" I trailed off uncertainly as I took in the dark hotel suite before him. "Jeremy, aren't you back yet?"

I'd come in with the spare key my co-star had given me, figuring that Jeremy would have gotten back to the hotel long before myself. Holmes had had it out yet _again_ with the director, and Watson and I left in the middle of the argument to grab a bite to eat. A dinner date turned into a delightful and thought-provoking conversation ranging on a variety of subjects and stretching past two hours. John Watson was truly a remarkable man, and I felt honoured to stand in for him, even if his role was a bit… lacklustre at times.

It was 9 P.M. now, and Jeremy was not home. "What could've kept him?" I mused, flipping on the lights. A quick search turned up no "be back later" notes.

Ah, I knew what to do: I'd check in with Joan. Jeremy never missed an appointed call to his wife in America. I picked up the phone and went through the process of making a call to the States. A minute later, Joan picked up. "Jeremy?" she said, a trifle worriedly.

I suddenly felt a bit cold. "No, Joan, it's David Burke."

"Oh. Hi, David. Where's Jeremy?"

"That's what I was wondering. He hasn't called yet?"

"No." Her tone was laced with definite concern. "David…"

"All right, look, it's okay. I'll check the studio—maybe he went back there. He might have gotten caught up with another row with Holmes—who is kind of acting up today, you know."

She gave a nervous laugh. "Since when is he not?"

"Touché. I'll call you back once I find him, all right?"

"Okay, David. Thanks."

"No problem, Joan. Goodbye."

"Bye."

I set the phone down and hurried out of the room, locking it behind me. "Jeremy Brett, you'd _better_ be with Holmes," I muttered, all but running out of the hotel and to my rented car in the parking lot.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

First off, I have to say that all my knowledge of Jeremy's private life and of David Burke has been gleaned from the Internet. I have never read _Dancing in the Moonlight_ or _Bending the Willow_, nor do I have enough money to buy either book (unfortunately!). This is a work of fiction (quite obviously), and what I have to write regarding such things as the hotel and Joan Wilson is entirely guesswork.

Secondly, I have to say that I _loved writing Jeremy in this chapter_! It was just… awesome.

And, before everybody starts stockpiling kitchen projectiles with which to batter Jeremy's kidnappers and so rescue him, allow me to remind you that he has a week before things should get really bad. Yes, lack of food, very little water, and no light are all serious, but they're using that to soften him up.

With that in mind, I should warn you that things do indeed get worse before they get better.

Next week… Holmes and Watson get involved.

_**Please review!**_


	3. 2: Game Plan

**To my reviewers:**

I am _so sorry_ this is so late! It being such a _thinking_ chapter, however, it was hard for me to type up; plus, I had publishing projects to attend to. (Three of my stories—"Their First Christmas," "Violinist on the Roof," and "Swim" from AMM—are going to appear in the soon-to-be-released Holmesian dot Net collection on Kindle! *cheers* And AMM is getting veeery close to being ready, as well!)

I hope to be able to update this next week, but I make no promises. I have a _Sherlock_ drama that has a rather larger audience clamoring insistently for updates (since Sherlock and John are in comas and Mycroft has blacked out from a gunshot wound, the readers are rather justified), and my muse keeps supplying me with plot-bunnies for _Tales from the Great Hiatus_ (and you know how plot-bunnies are—terribly cute but awfully persistent). I have to say right now that this is one of the most difficult fics I have ever undertaken—getting things right and realistic is a big priority. Not to mention the fact that, once she got me started on this story, the muse decided that she'd only enlighten sporadically as to its continuation. *glares at unrepentant nymph*

**Watson:** Take your time, dear, and be careful.

**Me:** Thanks, hon. *kisses him on the cheek* =)

**To my reviewers:**

Hidinginthecookiejar: (Sorry I had to change your screenname like that, but did you notice what happened last time? Eep!) Without giving any _real_ spoilers… you know Holmes _has_ to rescue Jeremy. If he didn't, we wouldn't have the series, now, would we? ^_^

SabrinaPhynn: Thanks, hon! Don't worry—I think Holmes will… "perform"… satisfactorily to all concerned!

Moonspun Dragon: A _faucet?_ O.O Wow. Whatever happened to the good old rolling-pin? ^_^ Holmes does indeed owe Jeremy big-time, though… As gentle a soul as Jeremy was in real life, I don't doubt that he would have indeed been defiant in such a situation, especially since he was roleplaying Holmes (whom, I doubt, would go quietly, either). Thank you!

ElizabethAnneSoph: Thank you! …Mmm, it might be a little tougher than you think, Jeremy going without… I'm afraid, too, that our beloved JB doesn't actually appear in this chapter… *ducks beneath the desk*

VHunter07: Thank you very much! If you check out the recent Granada C2, you'll find several great crossover shorts by Moonspun Dragon, "Four of a Kind" by Spockologist, and the longer and utterly **fantastic** _A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Set_ by nomdeplume30. You'll also find my other Granada crossover, _A Study in Stardom_, that started this craze—although to be perfectly fair, Pompey really started it by inspiring me with her one-shot "Hero Worship" in _More Things That Never Happened to Sherlock Holmes_. Do check them all out—you'll love them!

**==Chapter Two==**

**Game Plan**

_**(Watson)**_

The distant sound of pealing bells invaded my subconscious. As I drifted back towards wakefulness, I realised that the noise was a doorbell—more than that, it was _my_ doorbell. I startled awake and flung back the bedclothes, rushing to the window and looking down. The figure standing before the door to mine and Holmes's house (a small but affordable place near Baker Street) appeared to be David Burke. "What the deuce?" I muttered sleepily, thrusting on my dressing gown and slippers before heading down.

I met Holmes on the stairs, as half-asleep as I. "What the devil could anyone want at this hour?" he demanded grumpily.

What, indeed? It was past midnight.

"Did you see who it is?" I asked.

He nodded, reaching the door before I, unlocking it, and throwing it open. "Burke, what on—"

"Have either of you seen Jeremy?" David demanded.

I frowned. "No, not since he left the studio at… what, five?"

"Yes," Holmes murmured, his grey gaze raking over my acting double. "Come upstairs, David," he said quietly. His usage of the actor's Christian name did not bode well.

David followed us up to the sitting room and collapsed onto the sofa. I flipped on the lights and saw that he looked dreadful—dark rings under his eyes and pale, drawn skin. "Holmes," said he, "what's this case you've been working on lately?"

Holmes sank into his armchair, steepling his fingers. "Brett is missing, then."

"Yes." I had never heard David's voice so hard outside of a film take. "He wasn't in his suite when I got back at nine, and he still hasn't come back. There was no note, he didn't make that call to Joan, and he hasn't been back to the studio."

"Good heavens," I breathed, sinking into my own armchair. "Holmes…"

My friend's brow was creased in concentration, and I thought I saw concern flicker through his hooded eyes. "I see," he said gravely. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. "I have been on the trail of a smuggling ring," he announced. "Drug trafficking, to be specific. Yes, Watson, I know—ironic. But my investigations have revealed a slew of crimes extending beyond drug traffic, and I am sure these fellows wish to see me silenced, one way or another."

David stiffened. "Then is Jeremy… What's _happened_ to him?"

Ignoring him, Holmes stood and began to pace slowly. "But why Brett? To use as a hostage against me, or kidnapped by mistake?"

"You think he's still alive?" David's blue eyes gleamed faintly with hope.

That question pulled Holmes out of his musings. "I cannot say for certain, but I doubt that our foes would kill me outright so soon…" He took his cherrywood pipe from the mantle and proceeded to pack and light it. "This is certainly a three-pipe problem," he murmured.

At this point in a case, I would normally leave Holmes to his contemplation, and David knew it. Even so, he said, "What about Joan? Should I tell her?"

Holmes frowned and removed his pipe from his mouth. "No, I think not, not until we have something conclusive. We shall do no good by worrying her unnecessarily."

"Except that she's already worried," David countered. "I had to call her to check if Jeremy had called. She was definitely concerned."

An uneasy silence fell over the room.

David began to shake his head slowly. "Oh… don't say that I should lie to her. Don't you dare."

Holmes let out his breath between his teeth. "If you don't wish to lie, then, by all means, burden her with the truth."

"Holmes!" I rebuked sharply.

David's eyes were flashing blue fire. "You _little_… _cretin_…"

I groaned softly and stood. "That's enough, David. I'm afraid we'll have to leave the matter of Joan up to your discretion. And for tonight, I should prefer that you remain here rather than returning to the hotel. If Jeremy was mistaken for Holmes, you could well be mistaken for me."

"Very true," Holmes murmured.

For a long moment, David looked as if he might refuse, and, when he accepted, I almost sighed in relief. "Where should I stay?"

"There's a second bedroom adjoining mine upstairs," I told him. "It's always in readiness in the event that we might need to accommodate a visitor."

"All right, thanks." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Do you think Jeremy will be okay?"

I traded a troubled glance with Holmes before replying, "I honestly can't say, David. I would need to know more about them before rendering a verdict."

"Jeremy should not come to any lasting damage," Holmes said with an air of finality. "He may have disillusioned his kidnappers as to his identity, or he may be playing my role—which, I shall admit, should place him in greater danger. However, he may well have the sense to realise that, if they believe me accounted for, I can act with greater freedom now."

David's curiosity appeared to get the better of his anger. "How so? They'll find out that you're still loose—"

"They shall not," Holmes interrupted. "If Brett is indeed impersonating me, I shall do likewise for him."

David shot him a look of disbelief.

"You think I cannot?"

David was obviously choosing his words with care as he said, "I do think it might be… more difficult… for you to play Jeremy than for him to play you."

Holmes's expression was somewhere between affronted and thunderstruck, and, despite the gravity of the situation, I nearly smiled. After a moment, he said, "Nevertheless, that is what I shall do. Now, I advise you both to take the utmost care when venturing beyond this house, the hotel, or the studio. Go nowhere—absolutely _nowhere_—alone. In fact, it may be best if the two of you journeyed together as much as possible—I rather doubt these men would try to abduct you, Watson, if David was with you."

David and I shared a glance. It would be an awkward arrangement, certainly, but doable, nonetheless. "Fine, fine," my double sighed. I merely nodded.

"Capital." Holmes rubbed his hands together. "Now, in the morning, the three of us shall take a cab to the hotel, where I shall don some of Brett's clothes. Watson, you and I shall have to pack, as I believe it would behove us to move into the hotel for the time being. Following that, we'll go down to Scotland Yard, ostensibly with the intent of reporting my missing-person status. I will deliver the news to the inspector with whom I'm working, Steve Emerson, in private. After that…"

"You go out and do your detecting thing," David finished dryly. Holmes cast him an irritated look to which David appeared perfectly oblivious. "Okay, sounds good. Just one thing."

"Yes?"

David stood. He was ever so slightly taller than I—by a mere inch, I believe—and just above average male height, but he possessed the impressive ability to appear taller even than that when he so chose. "Do you really think we can get Jeremy back?" he said gravely. "I mean, alive and…"

_Undamaged_ was the word hanging in the air as heavily as if it had been spoken.

My friend's grey eyes appeared the colour of the stormy summer clouds, and I realised that he was just as disturbed by this turn of events as I was—perhaps even more so. True that half of all conversation between Sherlock Holmes and Jeremy Brett was bickering, but the other half was largely good-natured banter. Necessity was not the only factor that driven them to a kinship parallel to that which existed between David and I. The last man with whom Holmes had developed such swift rapport was myself. "Pray God that we may, David," he murmured. "I am no miracle-worker."

With that, he took his Stradivarius with him into his bedroom and shut the door. I motioned David out into the hall beyond and shut off the lights. Within minutes, a soft, sad tune drifted in the darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Sorry that Jeremy wasn't here this time—next time for sure. A scene with him just didn't fit in this chapter; it ended better on the mournful note from Holmes.

Btw, if anybody's disturbed with David's attitude towards Holmes, allow me to clarify something: David is scared for Jeremy and is lashing out on a perfect target, Sherlock Holmes. Slightly justified, in that, if it hadn't been for Holmes, Jeremy would not have been kidnapped. I daresay any of us would probably act similarly if it was our good friend in genuine danger of his life.

_**Please review, and stay tuned!**_


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